Wrong Pronoun
by Backroads
Summary: A couple of Weasley men get some office work done.  It's set after DH, it contains spoilers, there you go.


The office was clean enough, cluttered and untidy in the typical fashion of the creative mind, but clean enough. A few boxes lay about the floor, contents not yet moved to more permanent places. The work had been going on for several hours—not that there was really much work to do. Just the usual: organization, paperwork, cleaning, and of course the working of affairs. Strange duties for an office that looked the way it did: toys buzzing and shocking each other with miniature charms, telescopes, a flytrap disguised as a rose, all set among bits and pieces of inventions-in-the-making. The rest of the family had left a quarter of an hour before, saying something about a few deliveries before picking something up for dinner. Only two were left, one crouched over a desk, pouring over paperwork, the other staring with mild interest at an autographed poster of the Weird Sisters.

"You don't have to stay, you know." The phrase was sharp, stabbing out of nowhere; neither had spoke much in the past fifteen minutes beyond simple questions and answers as to where things went.

Percy shrugged and turned away from the poster. He had never understood the mass obsession with the band. "Of course I have to stay. I thought that's why we all came here. To work."

"The work's done," George replied. He did not lift his eyes from the papers, even though he wasn't particularly sure just what they were about. Order forms for equipment, possibly. Or perhaps something to do with inventory or income. "I told you that."

"There are still boxes on the floor. You are so unorganized."

George squinted at the papers. Maybe it was one of those random letters that sometimes found their ways into the office. "We're organized enough." He bit his tongue the moment the words were out of his mouth. Wrong pronoun.

At least Percy was silent a moment longer.

Of course he was. He had noticed the word. We're. Was that why he was sticking around?

"So I'm a little behind," George continued. "The shop is doing fine. It's always done fine."

"I heard. You sell great products." Percy turned to fiddle with a wriggling and smoking ball of something of which he wasn't sure.

Like Percy would understand the nature of a joke shop. George continued to stare at the papers. Oh. Transfer of shares and all that good stuff at which he didn't want to look. He pressed one hand over them, squeezed his fingers until he could hear the stubborn crumpling, and shoved the whole lot to the ground. They whipped and shrieked as only paper could as they fell. He resisted the urge to grind his shoe over them. He hated them. It was still their shop, it was still their shop. They had built it together.

Percy tried not to watch, but it was hard one's eyes off someone on the verge of crying. Especially when that someone was one's little brother. He set down whatever the odd little device was. "George, it's been over two weeks." Two weeks. It was like slapping himself with the Cruciatus Curse.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" It was a yell and George had never been the type to yell. "Two weeks since the defeat of Lord Voldemort? Happy day, let's celebrate?" His throat hurt after that, burned, and it was all he could do to just gasp for more breath. He felt sick.

So it had been the wrong thing to say. Percy took a step closer to his brother. He had never been very consistent with all that emotional stuff. "I'm sorry. I just thought… you haven't been yourself." He cringed. Apparently he wasn't very consistent with speech, either.

George decided he would have killed Percy at that very moment if it wouldn't mean another loss. He scooped the papers up with his one hand, crushing them hard. One even ripped. "And what am I supposed to act like?" If Percy knew, if Percy could even imagine… could anyone imagine being torn in half without ever experiencing that sheer horror?

"You're not the only one who lost someone." Was that the best he could say?

George took another deep breath. He knew. Why wouldn't he know that? What had the past two weeks been about? They were a family and they had all been there and… it hurt too much to think about. "He was my best friend."

Maybe that wasn't something Percy could understand. He hadn't exactly been the model of brotherhood. "I know. Look, I just wanted to help you get the shop back in order before you reopen…"

"Yeah, you're really organized that way." Sarcasm, deep and bitter.

Well, it was the truth. "I just don't have the best skills at timing."

Another breath. Why was it so hard to breathe in this room? "You were right there, weren't you?"

"Don't you dare blame me for this." Percy could feel his temper rising. Bad timing, oh yes.

"I'm not. Why would you even say that?"

Bad timing. Isn't that what he had just said? "I came back. There was a war. But even then it was exciting. It was like being kids again. Playing. And it was only a few minutes total." He remembered it like it was happening. The look on his little brother's face as he died, a Fred-typical smile at the very end. Then the shock that had poured through him that he couldn't even think.

"A few minutes," George echoed. He didn't want to sound bitter, he really didn't. He didn't even truly feel that way. "You wasted three years."

Another silence. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't going to argue that. The tears were coming already, pouring down his cheeks like they had so many times already; it was commonplace now. "I'm really glad you came back."

Percy stared blankly at the papers in George's fist. George could run this place on his own, there was no doubt about that. "I almost felt like it was a trade. Fred for me."

Interesting concept. Fred would have made a joke out of it, but George was too exhausted to care. "Neither of you would be worth trading."

An attempt at a joke. Maybe. Percy couldn't be sure anymore. "Thanks a lot."

"Anytime."

The pause came again. There sure were many of them. Was it such a bad situation? The office of the joke shop, two brothers, tragedy in the past..."George, when was the last time I joked?"

Why did they have to talk about jokes now? George quickly wiped his eyes and turned around. 'What?"

"Fred was saying something about the last time I had joked," Percy said. "When was that?"

The answer came out of nowhere, automatically. "You were fourteen, we were twelve. We were going to cast a charm on one of your books to spit at you only you had already done it by the time we got to the book. Biggest ink loogie I had ever seen."

"Oh yeah." That had been a pretty good moment. "Thanks. I was wondering."

George hesitated before speaking. "That was the last thing he said?"

Percy nodded. "That's why I had to know."

"Oh." Fred would have thought about those things. Right now it hurt too much. "Percy?"

"Hm?"

"Why did you stay behind?"

"I already told you. You're unorganized. I was going to do paperwork for you."

The prat could have said something. George climbed from the chair. "Then do it."

It was rather nice to have a break.

_The End._


End file.
